


Collision

by IneffablePlan (Megafowl)



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Cuddling & Snuggling, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, Not Beta Read, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, this is as much as im willing to look at this so YEET
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-17
Packaged: 2020-01-15 10:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18496704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Megafowl/pseuds/IneffablePlan
Summary: Enclosed: An activity that may be drug use or may be ethereal/occult sex, we just don't know.





	Collision

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mercuryhatter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mercuryhatter/gifts).



> "LMAO what if A&C can get high off each other"  
> \-- This spawned from talking about shotgunning weed. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

They really should be drunk for this, Aziraphale thinks, opening them both up like brittle, aged books. They _are_ old after all; beyond ancient; words long ago thought and thoughts long ago dead folded and threaded throughout them. They should be drunk, should have a foundation of empty wine bottles to build their excuses on, or at the very least some mildly hallucinogenic smoke.

He pries them open slowly, cautiously, as if remotely able to do either Crowley or himself any sort of harm. Vulnerability. Too close. Too far. Something they can’t admit to needing. The realm of wordless conversations, cautious and gentle until it spills and sprawls over into something else, ravenous and exposed.

Crowley is taut and impatient in his arms, an instrument waiting to be played, and he makes an exquisitely drawn noise that Aziraphale might call a nervous laugh if it hadn’t been overflowing with eagerness and desperation.

If it hadn’t been backed by millennia of want.

He looks into those uncovered yellow eyes and Aziraphale stops thinking about wine, stops thinking about excuses, and focuses instead on what else is on the other side of that nearly trembling mouth. He might wonder who needs this more, if he gave himself the chance to think about it. As it is, he doesn’t, and angel and demon meet each other halfway like conflicting pressure systems and let themselves tumble over into each other in their own personal earthquake.

With Crowley’s fingers clamped against Aziraphale’s jaw, their open mouths pressing together, Aziraphale’s arm secure around Crowley’s shoulders and other hand wrinkling the side of his expensive-looking cotton shirt, they hesitate one last moment, giving each other space to back out, to acknowledge this for the bad idea it is. It passes quickly. Crowley closes his eyes first by half a second, and Aziraphale pulls where Crowley pushes, drawing in and shuddering down the reconfigured reflection of an angel that Crowley bleeds into him like a fountain pen.

Crowley exhales like the sharp edge of a letter opener and Aziraphale takes it voraciously, abruptly finding himself laughing bright and distant now into the underside of Crowley’s jaw, unsure and uncaring of how he got there. He tilts his head and bites, feels Crowley tense, the demon’s chest expand with a gasp and he tastes like thunderclouds. Aziraphale stays with his lips to skin; teeth barely sinking into the soft flesh next to Crowley’s throat, the suggestion of danger as he rides out this wave. It flares brief as always, strong and intoxicating as his divine fire burns out the infernal one he’s pulled in to dance with it.

He hauls himself back up, perfectly polished nails a little too harsh in Crowley's shoulders, and he presses his mouth to his counterpart's and demands, _takes_ , whatever Crowley will give him.

He suspects, in the part of him that's terrified, that small and sharp voice that's growing weaker with every pull of demonic essence, that Crowley could drag him down like this, overwhelm the holiness inside of him and spike it through with hellish influence. _He won't,_ _he wouldn’t_ , says the rest of him, the part that trusts, the part that knows Crowley to be safe and steady and _home_. Crowley won’t hurt him. Crowley wouldn’t even try.

He hands himself over to the cascade of acidic stars, burning down into his being, simultaneously numbing and electrifying, and at some point he notices he's sprawled across the cushions on his back, limbs nearly dripping off the edges. Crowley is waiting, hovering above him, vulnerable without his sunglasses and looking perfectly divine in his own right. Perfect in a way Aziraphale would never find in Heaven.

Aziraphale catches Crowley’s hand as it plays down the side of his face, fumbling a little before Crowley takes pity and stills his palm against the angel’s cheek. Crowley is beautiful, a sublime welcoming darkness. Wide-eyed, attentive, and tenacious. Aziraphale is unafraid in this moment, caught and held pinned by that gaze, skittering along the edge of something deep and unknowable and eternal. Skipping too close to the chasm that promises to swallow him whole and drown him. He’s helpless, caught in a riptide, and the futility of struggling absolves him of the need to try, hanging in a paradoxical sort of freedom.

He tugs Crowley down, twists his fingers in the demon's hair as he guides him back and returns the favour, holds Crowley locked in place against him, _giving_ this time. He can see without having to look: Crowley, eyes tightly shut, little whimpers trembling in his throat as he chokes on the divinity he's greedily, desperately imbibing. Aziraphale pushes just enough, rolling Crowley beneath the tide and feeling him go slack, gasping, the two of them just this side of delirious and acutely aware of their proximity to each other, pressed as close as possible and still so far away.

When they tire of trading themselves in little breaths and kisses, Aziraphale shifts up enough to accommodate the wings tearing his shirt as they unfurl, and stretches them as well as he can in the small space before curling them in overhead. Crowley is pliant in his arms, a dead-weight radiating love and contentment, and Aziraphale wishes that moment were something he could wrap it up and hold onto and bathe in forever.

Crowley peeks up at their impromptu tent and ruffles a few feathers appreciatively, then manoeuvres himself until satisfied with his limb arrangement, entwined thoroughly with Aziraphale's.

They stay there, silent and happy and aimless, for a long time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm embarrassed posting this because I have weird hangups about doing anything vaguely horny online, last time I posted a fic like that was probably six years ago but I don't want to check.
> 
> Alright I'm going to take a deep breath and hit the post button, fingers crossed that spontaneous human combustion is a myth. 🤞


End file.
